


Mr November

by Spoodlemonkey



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Mitch being a Little Shit, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 11:32:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16786141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoodlemonkey/pseuds/Spoodlemonkey
Summary: Mitch holds out his phone so Connor can see the image he has up on his screen and Connor nearly swallows his tongue.Because it’s Freddie. Freddie with his broad shoulders and thick thighs, somehow looking as soft as he’s ever seen him in a cream sweater and threadbare jeans. His frankly ridiculously huge hands are curled gently around the smallest puppy he’s ever seen, something with massive paws and ears and big brown eyes that gaze up at Freddie adoringly—and Connor will deny to his last breath that he has a thing for how big Freddie’s hands really are.“Fuck,” he breathes with feeling and Mitch snorts.





	Mr November

**Author's Note:**

> So the calendar's in this are fictional and this is partially based on my obsession with the Dallas Stars Foundation calendar with the dogs...I have a weakness. So does Connor. A big thanks to GreyMichaela for reading this over for me and listening to my rants about these boys! Not my boys, barely my sandbox...

They’re sprawled out in Auston’s apartment across his giant, overstuffed couches, in their eighth round of Mario Kart—Auston is nothing if not competitive as  _ fuck _ but isn’t fast enough to keep up with Freddie and his goalie ninja reflexes so they can’t move on until he  _ wins— _ when Mitch, who’s given up on playing and has been idly scrolling through his phone for the past half hour, turns to him with a wicked gleam in his eyes that immediately has Connor looking to get away from whatever he has planned.

“What?” he asks, warily. He’d given up his controller to Zach in disgust after the last round at the way he kept getting run off the road and into  _ space _ by Naz, and now he’s wishing he had it to at least  _ look _ busy, instead of shrinking under the look of deranged glee spreading across Mitch’s face. 

“Remember those pet calendars the Caps made last year?” 

And yeah, how could  _ anyone _ forget the sight of Alexander Ovechkin cuddling with a bunch of puppies? Playing them after witnessing  _ that _ had been a true test of his skill as a hockey player.

“Turns out Anaheim’s made them before too.” 

This doesn’t really come as a major surprise to Connor. He’s seen the Pittsburgh and the Dallas versions and he gets it, he’s surrounded by attractive men—pairing them up with adorable animals is just  _ cruel _ . Mitch holds out his phone so Connor can see the image he has up on his screen and Connor nearly swallows his tongue. 

Because it’s  _ Freddie _ . Freddie with his broad shoulders and thick thighs, somehow looking as soft as he’s ever seen him in a cream sweater and threadbare jeans. His frankly ridiculously huge hands are curled gently around the smallest puppy he’s ever seen, something with massive paws and ears and big brown eyes that gaze up at Freddie adoringly—and Connor will deny to his last breath that he has a thing for how big Freddie’s hands really are. 

“ _ Fuck, _ ” he breathes with feeling and Mitch snorts.

“What is it?” Auston asks, without glancing away from the screen, probably using his ‘Mitch-sense’ to tell something’s going on. The pair are  _ way _ too in tune with one another. 

“Nothing.” Connor claps his hand over Mitch’s mouth before he can answer. Auston glances away from the screen for a brief second, judging them, and in that moment Freddie passes by him and Auston curses, turning his attention back to the game. He forgets to move his hand fast enough and Mitch licks a wet stripe up his palm.

“That’s fucking gross.” He wipes the drool off on his sweats. 

“Just cause you’d rather have someone else lick you,” Mitch starts and Connor grabs a pillow and sets to work smothering his teammate before he can out his stupid crush to half the team. 

::

So that’s that. Kind of.

Connor’s in bed later that night, a few beers in his system for a happy buzz, tired in a mellow way, and his phone in hand as he idly scrolls through instagram posts, when he remembers the calendar. 

It doesn’t take long to find the image in particular and yeah, it hits him just as hard the second time around. Freddie looks just as soft and want sits heavy in Connor’s belly as he spends far too long staring at it. 

He ends up saving the image to his phone, tries not to think too hard about it. 

::

Except. There it is, the next day, printed off and taped to his locker and out in the open for anyone to find. 

Connor swears and tears it down, albeit gently, tucking it out of sight in his bag before anyone can spot it. He’s usually one of the first of the guys in for morning skate, and it’s no different today. Patty is across the room looking far too awake, a few of the guys can be heard in the hall, but that’s it. 

But he knows exactly who did this. 

The fact that, when Mitch comes strolling in about ten minutes later, he  _ doesn’t _ resemble a zombie pretty much tells Connor all he needs to know. Marns is  _ never _ awake in the morning.

“Mitchell.” He corners him during the warm up, drags him away from Auston and Zach so he won’t have any witnesses if he needs to  _ murder  _ him. 

“Brownie.” Mitch grins at him, the same manic grin he was sporting the last time someone allowed him more than two cups of coffee before noon and it does not bode well for Connor’s sanity.

“What the fuck was that?” 

“What?” Connor can see why Mitch gets away with half the shit he does—the guy pulls off innocent far too easily. It’s disgusting really. 

“The picture?” 

“Picture of what?” Mitch bats those fucking  _ bambi _ eyes at him and Connor can feel his own eye starting to twitch. 

“The one of  _ Freddie _ ,” he hisses.

“What?” comes Freddie’s voice from right behind him.

Connor’s pretty sure his heart has stopped.

Mitch wouldn’t. 

He winks at Connor.

He would, he so totally would.

“We found your old Ducks calendar.” Mitch tells the goalie, the perfect picture of innocence. Connor swears he is never falling for that shit again. 

“Which one?” Freddie leans on his blocker, gaze on Connor, and he can feel his cheeks betray him as he starts to blush. It’s not a good look with his red hair, he knows this, knows he looks like a tomato when the blush really comes in. 

“You and that super cute puppy,” Mitch gushes and Connor needs to make his escape before his face lights up the entire rink. 

“Oh.” A small, pleased smile pulls at Freddie’s lips and Connor would be a fool to make a run for it while  _ that _ is on display. “Which year?”

Connor’s brain  _ melts _ . 

“There’s more than one?” he asks faintly and Mitch laughs, delighted. 

“We did two while I was there.” Freddie shrugs. “It was a nice change from the usual suits.” 

“Have any extra copies laying around?” Mitch asks and Connor wants to  _ strangle _ him. 

“No,” A light pink dusts Freddie’s cheeks and Connor wants to  _ die _ . 

“Too bad.” Mitch casts Connor a  _ look _ but Connor is too busy pretending to hear Babs calling for him.

::

The next few days are blissfully free of brain melting photos of his starting goalie and friend, so Connor starts to let his guard down. Mitch has a tendency to lose interest pretty quickly in whatever scheme he has going, which has been the team’s saving grace more than once—an invested Mitch Marner is a force to be reckoned with, but thankfully he only pours that intensity into the ice and on occasion, Auston Matthews. 

Freddie seeks him out after practice one day, invites him out for lunch, and Connor tries to not seem too eager at the invitation. Considering the size of the team, and the way they tend to live in each others’ pockets, it’s not often they get to spend time together, one on one. 

They hit up a burger joint in Kensington Market. Freddie stuffs a baseball cap on, but Connor doesn’t get as much recognition as him, so together they are blissfully anonymous. The burgers are good, loaded high and greasy, the company better. A few card games are available at the counter, so they grab one suitable for pairs and spend the next hour gently chirping each other over it. 

He’s not really sure how, but their feet end up tangled together under the table. Freddie’s smile comes easy for Connor and he soaks it up, greedy for anything he can get. He’s reluctant to pull away after, once Freddie has thoroughly trashed him at the game, but there’s only so long they can spend at this little table, and the place looks like it’s starting to fill up. The air’s brisk, the threat of snow looming overhead as they step outside, and they spend the rest of the afternoon ducking in and out of the stores in the area. Blue Banana is always a blast to play around in and they waste a good hour in there, so it’s no surprise that it’s dark out when they finally reemerge. 

Back in the car, Connor has his hands shoved under his thighs, trying to defrost his fingers. Freddie notices— _ of course he does _ —and reaches out to crank up the heat as they pull out into the early evening traffic. 

“Better?” he asks after a moment and Connor shoots him a grateful grin. “We should do this more often.” 

“Yeah, I had a lot of fun.” Connor casts a glance at him and finds Freddie already watching him. They hit a red light and the moment stretches on. He clears his throat, feels the blush lighting up his cheeks and knows he can’t play it off as the cold anymore. “Maybe we could check out the Christmas market?”

The next two weeks look like they’ll be absolutely insane, packed full of practice and a road trip with back to back games, but after that they have three days off in a row and while Connor had initially been looking forwards to hibernating as much as he could in those three days, he’s willing to push aside the exhaustion he knows he’ll be feeling and brave the cold for Freddie. 

“Just the two of us?” 

Connor shrugs, willing to invite the others if it means he gets more of Freddie off the ice, but Freddie just gives him another one of his sweet slow smiles. “Yeah, I’d like that.” 

One of Freddie’s giant palms comes to rest on his knee and Connor has to look out the window to hide his blinding grin. 

Freddie keeps his hand there until he drops Connor off. 

::

Patty is standing in front of Connor’s locker when he gets in for practice. It’s a light one, they have a game against the Devils later, and Connor is still waiting for his coffee to kick in. A few of the guys glance up when he comes in, giving him odd looks. 

He realizes why once he gets a better view of his locker.

It’s covered. 

Top to bottom in print outs of Freddie from the calendars. All full colour, full page, Freddie’s stupidly gorgeous smiling face and that adorable puppy and Connor cycles through  _ holy shit he’s hot _ to  _ holy shit I’m going to kill Mitch _ so fast that he gives himself whiplash.

“I wasn’t sure I should move these before you got here,” Patty says, but there’s the hint of a smirk and clearly his  _ entire team _ is turning against him. 

Their  _ team dad _ has turned against him. 

He lunges, tearing them down—albeit carefully—as fast as he can. Freddie usually shows up a little after he does and he’s not risking their goalie spotting this  _ shrine _ and drawing conclusions. Like that Connor is insane. And obsessed. 

He’s going to kill Mitch.

He does get a good look at the second calendar shoot, and immediately wishes he hadn’t because  _ how is he supposed to function now _ ? Freddie looks even better, if that’s possible, dressed in shorts and a black t-shirt that is  _ very _ tight across the shoulders and chest, holding a literal ball of fluff and looking like he just rolled out of someone else’s bed. 

That’s it. Connor is screwed.

All of the Freddie pictures get tossed in the recycling under a layer of cardboard, save for one of the other photo shoot that Connor slips into his bag when the others are headed out onto the ice. 

::   
  


“You’re a dead man, Marner.” Auston looks vaguely alarmed when Connor drops down next to them on the bench, but Mitch just breaks into helpless giggles that just deflate Connor’s anger because he’s too damn adorable. 

“Does this have anything to do with all those pictures of Freddie you left on the living room floor?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mitch pushes to his feet and hops the boards.

“I nearly broke my neck sliding on those things this morning.” Auston frowns at him. 

“Don’t look at me, it’s your boyfriend who’s gone crazy.” 

Auston flushes at the boyfriend comment but doesn’t correct him, which is probably the closest they’ll get to actually talking about it. 

“So, what’s with the pictures of Freddie then?” he asks instead. Connor shifts on the bench, glancing around for Babs. Shouldn’t he be out there by now?

“Marns is trying to torture me, I think.”

Auston squints at him. 

“Wait.” A slow smirk spreads across his face. “Do you have a  _ thing _ for Fred-ex?” 

“Nope,” Connor cuts him off before he can get started. “This conversation is not happening.”

Auston laughs as Connor hops the boards, taking off across the ice. He ignores the calls for him to come back, tugging off his glove to flip Auston off, which, if anything, just garners more laughter. 

“Hey.” For such a big guy, Freddie is fucking  _ stealthy  _ when he wants to be. He knocks their shoulders together, helmet in hand and hair still carefully gelled. His dark eyes sparkle when he smiles and Connor is helpless but to smile back. “Help me warm up?”

“Sure.” They drop into some easy stretches, taking it easy as Babs shows up on the ice. Freddie gets set up in the crease, digging his skates in until he’s satisfied with the ice, then lets Connor know he’s ready. Connor circles around, takes a few soft shots, testing Freddie’s reach, his reflexes, then lets a few harder shots rip, not surprised when they’re easily stopped.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Freddie calls out. 

“Just going easy on you, old man,” he teases.

“If you can’t keep up, just say so, kid.” 

Connor laughs, catching the puck Freddie slides back out to him. It’s  _ on _ .

::   
  


It arrives in the mail the morning they’re leaving for the start of their three game road trip. Connor grabs his mail after his run in the morning, but dumps it on the kitchen table when he gets in, mind elsewhere as he runs through a list of the things he still needs to grab. He showers quickly, and eats standing at the counter, plate balanced in one hand as his gaze bounces around his apartment. There’s still his game day suit to grab, his charger and ipad, before the guys pick him up. 

It isn’t until he gets a text saying they’re on their way that his gaze falls on the pile of mail he left sitting on the table. He shoves his feet into his shoes and dumps his bag by the door before scooping up the envelopes. It’s mostly junk mail that he tosses in the recycling quickly, a few bills, and a large yellow envelope from some sort of hockey shop as far as he can tell. It’s padded with bubble wrap on the inside, and he tears into it, curious. 

And then he curses Mitch as an Anaheim Ducks calendar comes sliding out. 

It’s unused, from 2015 and it’s with dismay that he flips it open and finds Freddie. 

_ Mr. November _ , he reads, and  _ shit _ , if the pet calendars had melted his brain, this is somehow  _ worse. _

Where the pet calendars had Freddie looking soft and welcoming and too much for poor Connor, this one has Freddie in a dark suit, black buttoned shirt, staring the camera down like he knows exactly how to take him apart and have him  _ begging for more _ . 

Connor stares down at the picture, mouth dry, imagining what it would be like to be on his knees in front of Freddie, under the full force of that gaze.

He wishes he could say it’s the first time he’s thought that.

His phone buzzes on the counter and he startles, dropping the calendar. It’s Hainsey letting him know he’s there and Connor swears, shoving his phone in his pocket and grabbing his bag. 

He leaves the calendar on the table, tries to shove it to the back of his mind, and hurries out the door.

::

They come out of the first game of their roadtrip with a win. 

The locker room is a chorus of sights and sounds as the boys celebrate beating the Kings on home ice. It takes them awhile to get stripped down and into the showers, dealing with media, high on a good win, yelling to be heard over the cheers still going round the room. They’re riding the high after some tough home games, so they decide to head out, find a bar that can fit an entire hockey team. They’re on the road tomorrow, but their next game isn’t for another day, so Connor relaxes into the atmosphere, nurses the beer in his hand and sinks into the warmth of the bar, of Zach on one side and Dermott on the other. 

By the time they make it back to the hotel Connor’s feeling the long day hit him. His body feels heavy, well used, the alcohol in his system making his thoughts slow to a crawl as he fumbles with his keycard. 

Frustration is threatening to seep in and wreck his comfortable buzz after four attempts to get the door open, when the door swings open suddenly from the inside. 

“Thought I’d give you a hand.” Freddie turns and heads back inside and Connor stares blankly after him for a moment before realizing he’d been trying to get into the wrong room.

“Sorry,” he calls out and turns back to the hallway, squinting at the numbers across the hall. He’d  _ thought _ Patty had told him this room but he’s apparently in rougher shape than he’d originally thought.

“What are you doing?” 

He glances back at Freddie.

“Any idea what room Auston is in?” 

“Next to Babs I think.” Freddie appears in the doorway again, leans against the frame, arms folded over his impressive chest and Connor’s brain stops working for a moment. “Why?”

It’s physically painful to tear his gaze away from that sight. 

“I can’t remember our room number.” 

Freddie glances at the number on the door, then back at Connor. 

“Didn’t they tell you things got bumped around?”

Connor’s stomach sinks. 

He’s going to  _ kill  _ Mitch.

Freddie arches an eyebrow at him and Connor forces his brain to reboot enough to heft his bag higher on his shoulder from where it was slowly slipping. He can kill Mitch in the morning, and maybe Patty, but for the moment he’s exhausted and there’s a big hotel bed just calling his name.

He brushes by Freddie, tries to put the sheer amount of heat he’s giving off out of his mind, and heads straight for the bed closest to the window. Freddie has his stuff spread out across its twin, and it’s clear he was getting ready for bed when Connor had shown up. They don’t have a game the next day but the last thing he wants to do is interrupt their goalie’s sleep schedule, so he tries to go about unpacking as quietly as he can. Freddie, down to his dress pants and undershirt, disappears into the bathroom, so Connor quickly strips out of his suit, lays it out over the back of one of the chairs, and is in his sweats and an old Leafs t-shirt by the time Freddie reemerges in his own sleep attire. Connor tries hard not to ogle his thighs in the thin sleep pants he has on but is pretty sure he fails miserably. 

They end up side by side in the bathroom, brushing their teeth, and there’s something so  _ domestic _ about it that warmth settles in his chest and doesn’t dissipate until long after he’s drifted off to sleep. 

::

They beat the Sharks soundly, and move on to Anaheim, racking up the points as they go. Everyone is buzzing, can’t quite believe they’ve made it this far, and riding the high while they have it. Connor ends up back in his own room, free from the sight of Freddie first thing in the morning, sleep soft and inviting, and a terror to poor Connor’s  _ heart _ . 

He doesn’t miss it. He  _ doesn’t _ . 

They end up in Anaheim the night before their game against the Ducks. Connor sleeps the sleep of the dead, waking refreshed and knowing they’re going to  _ kill it _ . 

They have a morning practice at the Ducks practice facility, but then they’re given the next few hours to explore the city. Freddie has already ducked out to catch up with a few of his old teammates so Connor goes looking for Mitch and Auston to see if they still wanted to check out the mall. He doesn’t find them, can’t find them anywhere actually, which could mean any number of things, from ‘in the room and do not disturb if you wanted to keep your sanity’, or ‘up to no good and not wanting anyone to know it’. 

He chooses to believe it’s the former.

As long as they don’t get arrested he doesn’t care.

He finds Mo and Jake and Naz instead and they spend the afternoon binge watching  _ Nailed It _ . 

The locker room is tight with tension as they wander about, getting into their pre game rituals. Connor changes into his under armor and ducks into the washroom. When he comes back Freddie is standing in front of his cubbie. 

Warning bells start going off at the sudden change in Freddie’s pre game rituals. Every fibre of Connor’s being is screaming at him to turn around and head back into the bathroom until whatever is waiting for him there disappears, but he soldiers on and regrets it once he catches sight of the back of his cubbie.

It’s the pet calendars. Both of them, tacked up side by side and left open to Freddie’s months. 

He can distantly hear Mitch’s giggles. 

“I’m kind of impressed he found them,” Freddie says quietly. Connor wants the floor to swallow him up. His cheeks are burning, stomach twisting. 

He tries to play it off.

“Marns has finally lost it.” He laughs and it sounds stilted, awkward. Freddie glances at him, brow furrowed. 

“Everything alright?”

“Fine.” Connor tugs the calendars down then flounders, what the hell does he do with them now?

He ends up shoving them under the bench to deal with later, or rather to sneak out later when he doesn’t have the rest of his teammates around. Freddie’s still watching him with his warm gaze when he straightens back up. 

He’s saved by Babs striding in to start their pre game pep talk. None of them are willing to interrupt Babs when he gets going so Freddie leaves it, heads back over to his own spot, and gets to work on his pads. Connor sinks down onto the bench and tries not to look too relieved at the out.

::

They manage to scrape through a win in overtime. No thanks to him.

He plays like shit all night, can’t get his head in the game, can’t get the puck to connect with his stick. Babs barely plays him in the second and third and he tries to ignore the sick feeling that settles in his stomach. 

“Dude.” Mitch catches him after on his way to the showers, worry on his face. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Connor mutters, tries to duck around him but Mitch is persistent, following him. The others are still stripping out of their gear, cheerfully recounting the game, the saves they made, the points they racked up, everything Connor  _ didn’t do _ . 

“Come on, you were out of it tonight, something's bugging you.” 

“The  _ calendars _ ,” Connor bursts out. He winces at the way his voice echoes off the tiles. 

“What about them?” Mitch blinks innocently at him. “I thought you’d enjoy them.” 

He’s not buying it.

“I get that this  _ crush _ ,” he spits out the word, feels his cheeks heat, knows they must match the colour of his hair, “is really funny to you, that it keeps you entertained but I really don’t enjoy being the butt of your  _ joke _ . I get how pathetic it is, okay? It’s just a constant reminder of what I can’t have and I’m done with it all.” 

Mitch looks taken aback at the outburst, then guilty as it seems to sink in just how Connor might be taking it. 

“Shit, Brownie, I didn’t mean it like that.” And he looks so distraught Connor could think that, there are literal  _ tears _ in his eyes. “I’ll stop. I  _ swear _ I would never do it to hurt you, I just thought…”

He shrugs, at a loss. 

Connor scrubs his hands over his face and tries to fight off the raw feeling building up under his skin. He sighs, hating that he feels guilty for making  _ Mitch _ feel this way.

“I know.” The others are wandering into the shower now and they garner a few glances but he doesn’t think any of them heard his outburst. He lowers his voice just in case. “Just can you maybe let up with the pictures?”

Mitch nods eagerly.

“We’re okay, though?” 

“Yeah,” Connor doesn’t have to force the smile that spreads across his face. “Just no more calendars, okay?” 

::

No one goes out after the game that night; they have a late night flight home. It’s an exhausting trudge through security to the plane, and then home to his quiet apartment, but they have two days off before their next game and he’s planning on doing very little.

He dumps his bag in the living room where he can sort it out whenever he gets up in the morning and heads to the kitchen to grab a glass of water before bed. 

His gaze lands on the calendar on the kitchen table, still held open to the picture of Freddie. He leans against the counter, glass in hand. From here he can still make out Freddie’s piercing gaze. He bites his lip, setting the glass in the sink and scoops up the calendar before he can second guess himself. He’s tired and worn down and refuses to look too closely at the reasons why he leaves the calendar flipped open on his bedside table when he crawls under the covers. 

::

He wakes up to a text from Freddie asking about the Christmas market. He squints at it, trying to get his eyes to focus. It’s barely ten and he feels like he could sleep for another few hours at least, body still sore from the game, still feeling raw and run over from confronting Mitch. It’s Freddie though and Connor finds himself incapable of ever saying no to him, so he texts back and hauls himself out of bed. 

His shower takes a little longer than intended when he starts fantasizing about the calendar he’d woken up to, Freddie in black, his expression  _ searing _ , and he’s barely managed to throw on pants and a shirt by the time Freddie shows up. Connor stuffs the calendar under his pillow and out of sight, and hurries to let him in. 

He leaves Freddie in the living room to grab some socks and a sweater.

“Did you see the Dude Perfect video from Dallas?” Freddie’s voice floats in from the living room as Connor is deciding between the warm black hoodie or the flattering blue v neck and trying to decide if it looks too much like a date if he wears it.

“No, pull it up for me?” he calls back because Freddie knows he can’t get enough of those dumb videos. He goes for broke and grabs the blue v neck and shoves on a pair of socks, deciding it’s going to be under his jacket anyways, so what's the harm? Freddie’s on the couch when he reemerges, Connor’s phone in hand and a weird look on his face.

Connor  _ swears _ his heart stops.

Had he forgotten to delete the texts from Mitch about Freddie?  _ Fuck _ , he could have  _ sworn _ he’d double checked that, but he’d been exhausted when he’d gotten in last night.

Freddie finally looks up at him, eyebrow arched. 

“What?” Connor manages, mouth dry, and tries not to look like he’s having a heart attack. Maybe it’s nothing.

“I thought the calendars were a joke,” Freddie turns the screen so Connor can see the image he’d saved from Freddie’s pet calendar. 

All the blood rushes from his head leaving him dizzy. He can’t even come up with a suitable  _ lie _ . This is it, he’s fucked everything up.

“Why are you going through my pictures?” 

“Wrong button,” Freddie pushes to his feet and  _ fuck _ , comes to stand in front of him, expression unreadable. “Were they just a joke?” 

“Yes?” It comes out sounding like a question but with Freddie  _ staring him down _ it’s amazing he hasn’t swallowed his own tongue. 

Freddie reaches out with one of his giant hands, touch light as he carefully cups the back of his neck. Connor’s knees go weak embarrassingly fast—and  _ that’s  _ a new kink for him. His cheeks must be flaming by now, they feel too hot, with embarrassment and want, and his heads swimming from the easy touch. 

“So Mitch is just messing with us?” Freddie asks quietly but he doesn’t back away, doesn’t give Connor more space to  _ think _ —wait.

“Us?” 

Freddie huffs out a laugh, and adorably enough his cheeks go pink. 

“He knows I like you, I’ve been getting pictures of you sent to me for the past few weeks now.”

Connor’s having trouble hearing past the roaring in his ears.

“You like me?” He’s turned into a parrot. 

“Yeah,” Freddie shrugs, ducks his head, like he isn’t blowing Connor’s mind. “I thought the calendars meant you might too.” He trails off, looking hesitant for the first time since they started this bizarre conversation. 

Connor can’t have that.

“I do !” he blurts out, loud and awkward and he wants to crawl into a hole immediately after. It’s worth it for the smile that spreads across Freddie’s face. “I do like you, a lot. Mitch drove me fucking crazy with those calendars.” 

“Do you even realize how often you walk around shirtless?” Freddie demands but they’re standing there, grinning at each other like idiots. “He kept sending me all these pictures.” His grin turns wicked. “It was hard to keep my hands to myself.”

Oh. Connor flushes. Freddie’s gaze is steady as he pulls Connor across that final distance and finally,  _ finally _ they’re kissing. 

It’s perfect.

::

Freddie’s sucking a pretty vivid bruise into Connor’s neck when he suddenly stops, lifts his head and  _ bursts out laughing _ . 

Connor, who’d been happily grinding against Freddie’s thigh a moment ago and thinking about getting them out of their jeans soon is understandably startled, then pissed, when the warm weight that had been pinning him to the bed suddenly disappears. 

Then something hits him in the face.

“What the fuck?” he demands, grabbing at the — oh  _ fuck _ . The calendar. 

“If you wanted me in your bed that bad you could have asked sooner,” Freddie teases. Connor considers just smothering himself with a pillow for a moment. He ends up tossing the calendar across the room — where he’ll probably rescue it later — and climbing back into Freddie’s lap, determined to get him to  _ stop laughing already. It’s not that funny _ .


End file.
